20

The afternoon sitter today was, no joke, a fifteen-year-old girl with braces. Maybe she picked up on my energy—the needle was somewhere between manic and insane—or maybe she had an insta-crush on Zé (honestly, a real possibility). Either way, she couldn’t stop staring at us. I paid her for the rest of her shift and sent her home early.

Igz smiled at Zé, in case you’re wondering. Her treachery knows no bounds. Zé didn’t even have to work for it. He stood there, holding her, inspecting her, and Igz smiled like it was the most entertaining thing of her life.

I brought in Zé’s bag, and Zé looked up from Igz and said, his voice a little choked, “How is she bigger?”

“They have a way of doing that. It’s super fucking annoying, and it doesn’t stop for a good fifteen or twenty years.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Zé told Igz. “He’s happy you’re growing up big and strong.”

“See how happy I am,” I said as I lugged Zé’s bag down to his room, “the next time I have to scour the clearance rack at Target for new clothes. I swear to God, she needs new stuff every other week.”

“We won’t buy you everything off the clearance rack,” Zé said to Igz.

“You’re goddamn right we will.”

“No more of the hotdog onesies, I promise.”

When I got back to the living room, Zé was standing there, rocking Igz.

“Do you want to sit down?” I asked.

“I’m okay.”

“Do you want a drink?”

He shook his head as he touched Igz’s cheek.

My heart did that Grinch thing where it got huge in my chest, and I heard myself say again, “Do you want to sit down?”

Zé gave me a look. Maybe he took pity on me, because a small smile creased his cheek, and he said, “Yes, Fernando. Thank you.”

So, he sat. And I sat. And he held Igz. And I watched him hold Igz.

“Maybe you should go work,” he finally said.

“I don’t need to work right now.”

“Maybe you should go catch up on some paperwork.”

“I’m good.”

“Maybe you should turn on the TV.”

“Nah.”

He gave me a look.

It took me a moment, and then I said, “Holy fuck, I’m staring at you.”

Zé’s quiet laugh rolled through the house. He kissed Igz’s tummy to hide his smile.

“You want me to leave.”

“Of course not.”

“You want me to get the fuck out of your hair.”

“I love spending time with you, Fernando.”

“You know what this is? This is betrayal. Because I’m the whole reason you two even know each other, and now you’re cutting me out of the picture.”

This time, Zé didn’t bother hiding his grin. “Why don’t you tell me what’s in the fridge, and in a few minutes, I’ll get started on dinner?”

I stayed on the couch to make my point.

That slow smile unfurled on his face, and he touched the back of my hand—lightly, and withdrawing again almost immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Where the fuck would you go?” I asked as I got to my feet. “You two are a match made in fucking heaven.”

I thought maybe that being in the kitchen would make things easier, but somehow, it only made things worse. The needle on that internal dial inched a little closer to crazy. I kept wiping my hands on my shorts, pacing back and forth the length of the kitchen, straightening the towel and sweeping breadcrumbs off the counter, and feeling my heart climb higher and higher in my throat. Maybe this was what it felt like right before an aneurysm.

“What’s in the fridge?” Zé called.

“I don’t know,” I blurted. And then, before he could ask what that meant, I said, “I’m ordering something.”

Zé appeared in the doorway, all six feet of him, biceps on display as he adjusted Igz in his arms. His steps were a little too careful. “I think she’s hungry.”

“Where’s your cane?”

“I’m weaning myself off it.”

“Weaning yourself off it? You never used it like you were supposed to! Jesus Christ, Zé.”

“I feel fine.”

“And you didn’t do your PT.”

“Fernando.”

“Where is it?”

He sighed.

“Try that again,” I said. “I’m a little deaf when I’m talking to idiots.”

For some reason, that made him grin. “In my trunk.”

“You’re using it until we see a doctor and you’re cleared.”

He sighed again.

“Speak up, son.”

I thought maybe he’d fight me, but then his face changed, and he smirked. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Do you see who you’ve chosen?” I asked Igz. “This sexual reprobate was your pick.”

Igz didn’t mind, though; she was still smiling at Zé like he shat rainbows.

I got the cane from the trunk. I ordered dinner. Zé fed Igz and burped her, and no fucking lie, she was out like a light. He was so careful when he stood. Careful of his knee. Careful not to wake her. He moved slowly down the hall. I stood. I moved around the living room like somebody was shooting me in the ass with electricity. I tried to stand at the window. I picked up a pillow and put it down again.

When Zé came back, his face was unreadable. He stood in the hallway, looking at me. That windswept hair. Those dark eyes. He wasn’t smiling, but he always looked so kind. My knees were trembling. And he was still standing there.

“It’s your birthday,” I said.

A flash of surprise crossed his face. Then he smiled. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

That bumped the needle down a little, and I scowled.

“Of course you remembered,” he said, but it sounded like he was speaking to himself.

“I—I got you something.”

He frowned. “But you didn’t even know where I was until—wait, how did you know where I was?”

“You told me about that beach. How important it was to you. So, I kept going there. Every day.”

“Really?”

“Zé, I’m kind of having a heart attack right now, so can we please focus?” When he didn’t say anything, I rushed into the silence. “Please don’t be mad.”

There wasn’t any good response to that, so I led him out to the garage. I’d installed hangers on the wall of the garage, and the longboard fit perfectly beside the Escalade.

He stopped when he saw it. He stood totally still.

“I know you don’t want me to spend money on you,” I said. “And I know you want to be independent. And I respect that, and I respect you, and if you tell me you don’t want it, I’ll get rid of it. But after you left, I felt like I was going crazy. I felt like I had to do something. And I didn’t know where you were or if I’d ever see you again, but I thought if I did see you again, maybe, if I did everything exactly right, you’d forgive me.”

He still hadn’t said anything. His hand drifted against his thigh like he didn’t even know he was moving.

“Could you say something? Because I’m freaking out right now.”

“You bought my board back.”

I nodded.

“How?”

“I called a lot of surf shops.” Another of those silences opened. “Are you mad? If you’re mad, I’ll get rid of it.”

He shook his head. And then, like he was on a delay, he said, “I’m not mad.”

“Did I cross a line? Was this totally inappropriate?”

He shook his head again. He put one hand on the wall like he didn’t trust his legs, and he limped across the garage. He touched the board tentatively. And then he followed the length of it. It was more than a touch; it was a caress. How many hours had he spent working on this board? Caring for it? Waxing it? Trusting his body to it? And then a thought that had never occurred to me sprang into my head: was this the board he’d been on when he’d hurt himself?

“Zé—”

“Thank you.” The words were flat, almost hard. He dropped his hand and turned to face me. His face was still unreadable. “That was kind, Fernando. Thank you.”

“If you don’t want it, we’ll get rid of it.”

He shook his head.

“If you want the money instead.”

“No.” And then, like he was struggling, he said again, “Thank you.”

The moment grew longer and longer until I felt it break. And then we went back inside.

We sat on the couch, the television on, TV voices babbling. Eventually, the doorbell rang, and I got our food and carried it into the kitchen. He hadn’t liked it, I thought as I unpacked the salads. He hadn’t hated it. He hadn’t liked it. He hadn’t cared, maybe that was a better way of putting it. That part of his life was over. You should have gotten him a cute dad shirt, I thought as I got down glasses. You should have gotten him a cake—

Zé’s hands on my hips caught me, steadied me. And then the length of his body was pressed against mine, his mouth against my neck. He kissed me lightly, and I shivered like I had a fever. That was how it had all started. His lips against my neck. The gentleness of it. The question in it. Like now.

“You don’t have to…” But I couldn’t finish that sentence.

I tried to turn, but his hands tightened on my hips, holding me in place. I remembered how easily he’d moved me when he’d wanted to. How strong he was, with that toned, masculine body hidden under baggy surf clothes. His lips brushed my neck again, lower this time. The stubble on his chin scraped my shoulder. His cheek rubbed against the strap of my tank. I was instantly, totally, no-take-backs hard, my dick trapped between my body and the cabinets.

“Zé,” I said, my hands finding his.

“I love you,” he whispered and kissed my shoulder again. “I don’t think I love you. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Thank you for being so wonderful.”

I shook my head.

“Thank you,” he said again, and now his kisses were moving back up my neck again, “for being so generous.”

“I should have asked.”

“I can’t tell you how much it means to me. I’m sorry I acted—I acted weird.” The next kiss, he pressed below my jaw. I could smell him: coconut wax, and that darker, driftwood earthiness. “I got a little overwhelmed. Lots of feelings.” His breath was warm on my neck. “Thank you, Fernando. Thank you so much.”

I tried to say something. I couldn’t.

Zé drew my face around and kissed me. It was awkward—in part because of the angle, and in part because our timing was off. But it was Zé, and he tasted like Zé, and his mouth was Zé’s mouth, and I remembered the shape of it, how he was supposed to feel, and I turned and kissed him again. He parted his lips and let my tongue into his mouth, and he moaned. I could feel him now through those stupid board shorts, the hardness of his dick, and he rubbed himself against me as I kissed him again.

When we separated, we were both breathing hard. His pupils were so big his eyes looked almost black, and his lips were glossy and parted. He took my hand, and I said, “Zé.”

But he smiled and nodded, and I’m not made of steel. I let him lead me down the hall. His hand was a man’s hand. Callused, big-fingered, certain. When he stumbled, I put out a hand to steady him, and he looked back over his shoulder to smile at me. I pushed the hair out of his eyes and thought, I’m allowed to do this. I’m allowed to touch him like this.

We went into my bedroom, and I helped him out of his clothes, and then he helped me with mine. I spent a moment looking at him: the dark nipples, the beautiful brown of his skin that lightened below his hips, his cock. He was looking a little raggedy down there, which made me weirdly happy—it was nice to know (or to believe, anyway) that last time, Zé had cleaned himself up for me, and after he’d left, he’d let himself go.

I thought maybe we’d try what had worked for us last time, with Zé sitting on my lap so that he could keep his leg straight, but instead, he stretched out on my bed. I sat next to him and put my hand on his hip, and I watched goosebumps spread across his belly. I did that, I thought. I’m doing this, and I did that, and he’s letting me. I rubbed my hand across the ripple of abs, and he flexed into me like a cat.

“Lie down,” he whispered. “I want to be with you.”

So, I did. We made out for a while. He liked when I scruffed him with my stubble, and I left hot red tracks across his neck and chest and nipples. I sucked and bit his nipples. He left a major hickey on my neck, and distantly, I knew I was going to have to ask Augustus about concealer. He played with my dick, and after a while, I played with his. I liked it, don’t get me wrong. It was hot, handling a guy’s junk. And it was hotter because it was Zé. But it was still new ground. I stuck to the basics, and to judge by the noises, I did all right.

When I slid down between Zé’s legs, he stopped me.

“What?” I asked. “Do you want to sixty-nine?”

His cheeks were already flushed, but now the color deepened. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh.”

“Is that okay?”

I nodded so fast my head almost came off. Zé grinned, and I realized how that must have looked.

“I mean, I don’t have to,” I said. “I’m still figuring this stuff out, so if you like to top, I mean, I can definitely, um, try—”

He didn’t laugh, but his grin did get bigger.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I asked, swatting the inside of his thigh. I ignored his yelp. “I’m being a fucking gentleman. I don’t have to stick my dick in you just because—”

“Just because the only way you’ve ever had sex is to be the one doing the sticking?” Zé asked drily.

“Not to put too fucking fine a point on it.”

He gave me his Zé smile, that lazy, surf bum smile. “I want you to fuck me, Fernando, because I want you to fuck me. If I want to fuck you, I’ll ask. If you want me to fuck you, all you have to do is tell me. Although, you might have to jump straight to being a cowboy while my knee is healing.”

I rubbed the red spot on his thigh, feeling the dark hair there, the thickness of his powerful legs. The way he lay, with one leg bent, exposed a hint of his hole, and I could see a scattering of more dark hair there.

“If it’s too much,” Zé said gently, “it’s okay. I want to be with you, and I wanted to tell you what I wanted.”

“No,” I said. “No, I want to. I turned into a fucking bobblehead when you asked me, remember? I don’t want to, uh, do it wrong. Hurt you, I mean. Or, I don’t know. Be bad at it. It’s different from with a girl, I mean.”

“We’ll go slow,” he said. The dark brown of his eyes swallowed me. “You’ll take care of me.”

I will, I thought. I always will.

I had lube and a condom in the nightstand, and hail Mary, mother of God, the condom wasn’t expired. In the videos I’d watched, sometimes the guys fingered each other to loosen up, and sometimes they went straight to the pounding. Since I figured gay porn couldn’t be any more realistic than straight porn, that probably meant going straight to pounding wasn’t an option. I helped Zé get into position on his side, which was easier with his knee, and I parted his cheeks with one hand.

Aside from porn, I hadn’t spent much time around assholes. It was darker than the skin around it. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but he smelled like Zé—a little thicker, a little muskier, but not dirty.

“You okay?” Zé asked.

I nodded and squirted lube on my fingers. I ran my index finger over his hole a few times. The texture surprised me, but even more surprising was that Zé made a little contented noise. Not going to lie, that chubbed me right up. I added a little more lube, and when I felt his hole relax, I pressed against it. The resistance lasted long enough that I almost stopped, and then my finger slipped inside.

He was hot. And tight. Both of those things caught me off guard. Then I remembered this wasn’t about me and checked his face.

“I’m good,” he said. And then, with a tiny smile, “You have thick fingers, and it’s been a while.”

“Do you want me to—”

“No, don’t move.” He closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed. “I’m good, Fernando. I’m good. You’re making me feel so good.”

I eased my finger partway out and slid it in again. I’d read enough porn to know the theory. I pressed and pulled on the ring of muscle, forcing it to relax. I’d kind of forgotten about the prostate until—

“Meu Deus,” he grunted, and his whole body tightened, his hole spasming around my finger.

A smile spread across my face. He looked up at me from under hooded eyes, his expression dazed. “Hello,” I said and did it again.

A groan ripped through him, and then my name: “Fernando.”

I liked how that sounded.

As I worked a second finger inside him, I stretched down and kissed him. In return, his kiss was sloppy and broken. His hips jerked, and he groaned as I twisted my fingers, working the bulge of my knuckles past his rim. His leg was shaking. I stroked his flank with my free hand and kissed him again, and again, he struggled to respond, his mouth only partially sealing against mine as I found that spot inside him again and another punched-out noise escaped him.

“Fuck me,” he said against my mouth. His stubble scraped my lips.

“You’re still pretty tight.”

“Fernando, fuck me.” The words sounded dragged out of him. “Fuck me right now.”

Who was I to argue?

I unwrapped the condom and rolled it on as Zé watched from under those hooded eyes. It took me two tries. I was trembling, and part of it was because this was a first (even if it wasn’t the first), and part of it was because it had been a long time. I gave us each a little more lube, and then we shifted around until our bodies aligned. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and a flush spread across his chest, up his throat, into his cheeks. His hair was a fucking mess, and I had a vision of pulling on it, drawing his head back as I drove into him. Not today, not while his knee was still touch-and-go. But one day.

He was so tight. So tight that at first, I thought he wasn’t going to let me in. But it was like it had been with my finger; right when I thought I should pull back, right when I thought we needed to try some more stretching, muscle relented, and he took me inside him. He grunted, and I stopped with barely more than the head of my dick inside him. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Did I hurt you? Do you want me to stop?”

Zé shook his head. After several long seconds, he nodded, and I eased forward again. His hole clutched me, and even though I was trying to stay focused on him, on making sure he was okay, it was hard not to make comparisons, for my brain to register all the ways this was different and new and—yes—fucking amazing. He reached out blindly, found my hip, and urged me forward again. And then again. And then I was fully seated. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths, and then his eyes opened to slits.

“You feel so big inside me,” he murmured.

I rubbed his leg, which was slung over my shoulder. I kissed his ankle.

“God, Fernando,” he said in that scratchy voice. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Me too.” My fingers followed the powerful muscles of his quad. His dick had softened, and I touched it, stroking lightly under the head.

Zé smiled. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like it. It’s a lot, and my body is focused on other things right now.”

“I want it to feel good.”

“It does.” He made a few microadjustments and then said, “Go slow at first.”

I did. In porn, I feel like guys always talk about how hard it is to go slow, but that’s never been true for me. Sure, there’s a time and place to pound, and that can feel fucking amazing. But in my experience (I could hear Augustus and Chuy saying limited experience from the peanut gallery), my partners (and I) tended to get off more from slow and steady than from a nonstop bangfest. The drag and scrape of his tightness felt incredible, and Zé made soft noises that suggested he was feeling all right. I felt him relax, loosening up, accepting me more easily. I started to move a little faster. I began to find my rhythm. Like I said, it had been a long time, and I was out of practice. But my body remembered, and the way Zé watched me, with that distracted look of someone struggling to pay attention, was flattering. Hot, too. I scooted closer, changing the angle of our bodies. This time, I was doing it on purpose, looking for it.

“Caralho, fuck, damn, fuck!” He shouted the words at full volume, his hole clamping down on me, his back lifting from the mattress. I tried to keep us in position, drilling forward against that spot. His eyes were huge, but I wasn’t sure he was seeing me. He moaned—if you can call a shout a moan, “Fernando!”

His hand slid between his legs, and he began jerking himself off. He still looked like he was only three-quarters of the way to hard, but he seemed to know what he was doing. I kept going, and as I watched his face and felt his body tense around me, I went faster and faster. I could feel it, how he was chasing that edge, and the intensity of my fucking kept inching it further and further away. It was the hottest thing I’d ever experienced in my life, and I fucked him like my balls were on fire.

And then, intense or not, the fucking couldn’t hold him back any longer. Zé grunted. His body locked around me, his hole squeezing my dick. He came—a few strong spurts, and then softer ones, painting his defined abs.

I slowed. I’d read enough porn to know how sensitive a guy got after he nutted.

But Zé shook his head. “Keep going,” he mumbled, and he got a hand on my hip and drew me into him again. “Keep going.”

Jesus Christ, I thought.

He trembled as I chased that sweet spot of friction and heat and contact. He made soft little noises that were unmistakably distressed. He looked up at me, and his half-lidded eyes were dark and dreaming. Then I felt like something was lifting me up, and blood washed in my ears, and I came.

After, he was still looking up at me. I managed to give him a fumbling kiss and then, as carefully as I could, I eased out of him. I ditched the condom and lay down, and he turned, letting me take him into my arms before I even had to ask: his back to my chest, my nose in that mane of windblown hair. He breathed slowly and softly now. I drew his hair back and kissed his ear.

“Te amo,” I whispered.

“Eu também,” he said, his voice all raw edges. “Te amo muito.”